


The Pilot

by Elwyne



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:50:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7620802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwyne/pseuds/Elwyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An orderly admires the infirmary's most frequent visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pilot

The pilot is here again this morning. I smell him almost before I see him: rocket fuel, engine grit, the exotic, ephemeral smell of space. Helmet under one arm he strides into the infirmary, his jumpsuit streaked with sweat and grime.  


Then he sees me, or at least, my uniform. Urgency blazes in his demonstrative dark eyes, burning away weariness. As he does each time, he catches my arm, and asks me: "How is he?"  


"No change," I say, as always, lading my voice with compassion. My skin tingles under my sleeve where he grips it. I smile my best; I want to shout, let me hold you, let me be your shoulder to cry on. I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in his eyes, and long for such an impression on his soul. But he knows none of it; his shoulders slump at my words, the spark of hope in his face sputters and goes out. My heart breaks open a little wider.  


"Thanks," he says, crestfallen, and though it makes no difference he continues to the bedside of his friend.  


The nurses tell tales of the rebel and the pilot. How they saved each other once, each a hero in the other's eyes, each a grateful idolator. The bond of friendship between them, solid as a physical thing, strong as gravity. The rebel means nothing to me: he's only another patient, unresponsive, monitored by machines behind his casing of protective glass. But the pilot's beauty wrenches me. His passion for his friend, rather than dampening my own, inflames it, his love for another only escalating my desire. I linger long after my orderly duties are done, med levels double- and triple-checked, charts arranged, rearranged, deranged. I hover in the background, willing myself invisible, straining to catch the words he murmurs to his heedless companion, gathering them like fallen petals of the most glorious rose. I wait, taking on extraneous and tedious tasks, beneath the raised eyebrows of my superiors and the dismissive shrugs of my peers, until at last he tears himself free and trudges despondently from the infirmary.  


In his absence I console myself anticipating his return. Tomorrow, perhaps even later today: rested, freshly showered, infinitesimal drops of water glittering in his ebon hair like princely jewels. Perhaps not for days, should one mission follow on the heels of another. The General's best pilot can't be spared.  


Or perhaps, as each soldier fears, he will not return. Perhaps this instant he boards his ship for the last time. How then will I go on?  


As I pine I look after the rebel. I long for him to wake, to see the outbreak of delight on my pilot's face. I long for him to die and leave us alone together in our grief. I long for him to sleep forever, so that I may see myself reflected in those demonstrative dark eyes, seen and unseen until the end of eternity.


End file.
